SENIOR HURDLES

Author: Alison Hertel

"Sex and the City." Maybe you watch it. Maybe you don't. But I'm willing to bet you've at least heard about it. Magazines have written articles about the popular series, questioning whether a mere TV show has changed women's attitudes toward men and relationships.

I think that's attributing a little too much power to HBO, but maybe I'm not giving "Sex and the City" enough credit. I must admit that my friends and I have been known to sit around discussing which character each of us is most like — Carrie, Charlotte, Miranda or Samantha.

One undisputed power that the show does have is its influence over fashion. It's done wonders for publicizing the name Manolo Blahnik — Carrie's favorite brand of shoes. And, ladies, don't tell me you haven't caught yourself oogling at one of the outfits donned by one of the show's four divas. I just reread that last line, and I think it sounded like something Joan Rivers would say, but we're going to let it go.

Since HBO is not a part of life at Middlebury, my friends and I are watching the most recent season on a tape sent up by my roommate Jess's mother. We are four episodes into the six-episode season, and I'm dying to know what happens. But please don't tell me what happens if you see me. Jess won't let me watch the last two episodes without her, and her boyfriend was here this weekend, so watching "Sex and the City" wasn't her main concern. Strange how some people's priorities get so mixed up.

With that observation, I ask, should I take a stab at being Middlebury's own Carrie Bradshaw, the show's protagonist who writes a weekly sex column? In a recent episode a man told Carrie that she was his "New York survival guide." Could I be your Middlebury survival guide? It was a nice idea, but since I still get "the ranch" and "the farm" mixed up I don't think I'd be much help.

Besides, what would my grandparents think if I grew up and became a sex columnist? It's just not the kind of thing you talk about at Sunday dinner (or maybe it is the kind of thing you talk about at your family dinners, but if so the "Jerry Springer Show" might be interested in your family dynamics).

So since being a sex columnist is out and I'm not your best bet Middlebury survival guide, let's turn to relationships. I'm not very good at them (the romantic kind I mean), but what's the old adage? Those who can't, teach. That's me. So with that glowing endorsement, here goes.

I'm sure that more than one of you reading this (if more than one of you is reading this) was dateless at the ball. I was dateless, and a good number of my friends were dateless as well. We proud single women donned our dashing dresses, primped our hair, put on our most uncomfortable shoes and headed off to the ball in hopes of meeting the handsome prince.

On a side note — one of my friends was offered a glass (okay, plastic) slipper by an intoxicated underclassmen toward the end of the night — surprisingly, the shoe did not fit.

Back to my subject. I was dateless, but I still managed to have a fabulous time. And let me tell you, there were some things that could have gotten me down — I was (and still am) recovering from the flu and I fell in my previously mentioned uncomfortable (and by the way slippery) shoes on the ice on the way to my car to drive to dinner.

We dined elegantly at Mister Up's downtown, pre-partied a bit and then headed down to Nelson Arena to dance the night away. I will admit to escaping to the bathroom during a rare slow song and making some mean faces at some very cute, very happy, perfectly harmless couples. But what do you want from me? I am human, after all.

So for you ladies out there (and I think this goes for guys too) who've kissed what feels like more than your fair share of frogs, your handsome prince will come.

For some reason your prince (as well as mine) has decided to take the scenic route with the help of an old slow horse and a poorly marked map. But don't worry, he's just slow. And he hasn't forgotten about you.